Out of the Darkness
by Pseudonym Sam
Summary: The war against Voldemort is not going well. Harry Potter and his friends are on the run, and there is no end in sight for our heroes... But suddenly, out of the darkness, ABSURDITY INTERVENES!
1. Chapter I: Out of the Darkness

**_Chapter One: _****_Out of the Darkness…_**

Lord Voldemort was flying, the cold night air whipping into his face and body. He paid no heed to the numbing cold, for his chest flooded with excitement, for soon the Boy Who Lived would be relinquishing his ignominious title.

Far away, in Godric's Hollow, his dear Nagini smashed her smooth, muscular body onto the struggling form of Harry Potter. The boy's wand fell out of his hands, and the air in his lungs was brutally squeezed from his body by the great snake.

"No," the Potter boy gasped, pinned to the floor.

"Yes," whispered Nagini in Parseltongue. Voldemort could hear her, even over the strangled breaths of Potter, the thrashing and commotion in the room, and the countless miles separating himself from her. The voice was as loud and clear as his own beating heart, emanating from his body.

"Yesss… hold you… hold you…" hissed the seventh of the Dark Lord's soul within Nagini.

Hissing and spitting, the great snake coiled herself around Potter, his body convulsing, but fading. She squeezed, and the cold locket on a chain around Potter's neck was pressed onto his chest. The locket throbbed with energy and life, and Voldemort sensed some disembodied part of his soul beating with exhilaration that matched his own.

Voldemort flew on, lifted in the air by his sense of purpose and power and nothing more. His eyes were wide open, but they did not sting. His robes beat and convulsed in the wind. The distant spider web of lights in the night marked Godric's Hollow, and it was coming closer… closer…

Back in the Dark Lord's trap, Nagini was greeted by another victim… a girl. She came up the stairs to the landing and gasped at the sight of the snake strangling Potter. The girl drew her wand, but Nagini quickly unfurled her body and struck out, fangs bared. The girl shrieked as she flung herself to the side, her badly aimed spell shattering the window and showering the combatants with glass.

Freed from Nagini, the Potter boy frantically groped the floor for his wand. The great snake thrashed, and there was a flash of red light from the girl's wand. The spell hit Nagini and she was thrown into the air, knocking into something fleshy and the ceiling. Nagini hissed wildly in agony, and Voldemort felt a stabbing pain in his heart. His chest swelled with overpowering rage, and anger flowed through his veins. Nagini was a part of himself, closer than all of his most faithful Death Eaters…

Inside, the Potter boy was screaming something indistinct for Nagini to hear. Like the Dark Lord, he too was screaming in pain, but of a different sort. Through Nagini, Voldemort could sense Potter's terror, his dread of what was to come.

The house grew larger and larger. Voldemort was filled with manic excitement. Soon… very soon, he would rid the world of Potter once and for all.

Reaching into his flapping robes, he drew his wand. Hurtling through the air to his prize, he waved his wand at the house, muttering incantations to keep him there. Potter must not escape… not this time.

The wall of the second storey neared. Voldemort aimed his wand.

"_REDUCTO!"_

The spell pummelled into the wall and it crumbled. Plaster and brick were blasted into the room. Voldemort soared into the room through the gap and landed lightly on the debris-strewn floor. Nagini struck at the fleeing backs of Potter and the girl, disguised as old Muggles. The two leapt from some furniture and threw themselves straight out the window, screaming.

There was a dull thud, and Voldemort strode across the squalid, mutilated bedroom to the window. Down below on the overgrown lawn laid the groaning bodies of a bald man and a little woman, their disguises useless against the Dark Lord.

Voldemort laughed in triumph. At last, his victory was at hand! He turned to Nagini; she hissed with excitement as well. Voldemort placed his hand on her head before sliding out of the window, and floated gently to the ground.

* * *

Harry Potter was in pain. His whole body ached, and his broken bones stung like ice and fire. Their Apparation had failed and they had instead fallen to the ground. He had broken Hermione's fall, and she was on top of him, pressing him into the earth. His hand with his wand was pinned under his body, and the Horcrux around his neck was pressed to his chest, beating madly… and his scar… the scar was the worst of all, burning unceasingly. His mind was cold and empty; he wanted everything to end…

The weight of Hermione's body disappeared, and Harry felt his body being irresistibly forced to stand… but his broken bones supported him, for they had been mended. Even some of the pain had gone away. Harry forced himself to look up.

He was standing beside Hermione, and in front of them both was Voldemort. His pale, spider-like hand was caressing the wand pointed at Harry. He aimed his own wand at Voldemort, but it had been snapped in half, with only the phoenix feather core holding the two halves together. Voldemort's red, gleaming eyes were wide with malice.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," he said, amused. "… I need you to be standing and conscious when I kill you. The formalities must be observed."

Voldemort eyes explored Harry's and Hermione's bodies, still in the form of old Muggles. Voldemort made a tut-tutting sound and waved his wand at them. Even through the waves of agony in his body, Harry could still feel his limbs returning to their natural lengths, his face reverting to its normal form.

"And now, you die, Harry Potter," Voldemort said softly. He levelled his wand, aiming strait at Harry's chest. Hermione grabbed Harry and thrust him behind her, shielding him with her body.

"Hermione, don't!" Harry protested.

The edges of Voldemort's mouth curled in amusement. "And what is this?" he scathed. "Stand aside, silly girl, lest you want to go the same way as his foolish Mudblood mother!"

"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill me too," Hermione said with her wand drawn, amazingly calm.

Voldemort's hairless brows rose. "Very well then. I shall..." he said. Then, quick as a flash, before Hermione could react–

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

With a flash of green light, the curse hit her squarely in the chest. Hermione slumped to the ground and moved no more.

A wave of ice washed over Harry's mind, unable to accept the sight of Hermione, dead on the ground before him. Dead. Harry was next. It was over. Both Harry and Voldemort knew it…

"Now it is just you and me, Potter. There is no one to die for you now. No more cowering behind better witches and wizards," said Voldemort, his voice soft and deadly. He glanced down at Hermione's body and continued, "That senile old fool Dumbledore was right… love _is_ powerful magic. Only those foolish enough to love are foolish enough to sacrifice themselves in vain for the likes of you, Potter. I could never understand that…"

Voldemort looked up from his musing, his flaming eyes boring into the boy who had caused his downfall sixteen years earlier. For Voldemort, it was a time for vengeance. Harry's meeting with destiny had come.

Part of Harry wanted to die right there, in the decrepit, overgrown yard of the ruined house; he had lost, and there was no point in living anymore. He couldn't fight back, not with a broken wand. The stronger half of Harry urged him to escape somehow, to live, and perhaps fight another day.

Without realising it, Harry's legs were carrying him backwards through the gate and onto the street. Voldemort followed lazily.

"You cannot run, Potter. There is no point in delaying the inevitable," Voldemort said.

Harry's heels bumped into something solid. He hit the kerb on the opposite side of the street and fell painfully on the pavement.

Voldemort grinned. "Thus ends the great Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived!" he proclaimed. Voldemort stepped from the footpath onto the street, his wand drawn and aimed at Harry.

His body surged with power, the sense of elation and fortitude for the deed he was about to commit. Voldemort looked down at the helpless boy and noticed the locket and chain around his neck for the first time… one of his Horcruxes, one seventh of Lord Voldemort's soul.

Voldemort's eyes widened in disbelief at the discovery, but the Dark Lord soon recovered his posture. His crimson red eyes narrowed. His snake-like nostrils flared. He pulled back his thin lips, his teeth bared. Harry knew what was coming. Voldemort steadied his wand…

"_AVADA_–"

A loud screech, a blaring horn, a bright light…

**BAM!**

Out of the darkness, the cement mixer barrelled straight into Voldemort, his face contorted in shock for the briefest of moments. There was a piercing, strangled yell, and the Dark Lord was gripped by the front tyres and dragged underneath the massive vehicle. The front of the cement truck leapt into the air as the front wheels rolled over his body, which was then scraped underneath the bottom. The rear tyres smashed his bones and turned his body into a bloody pulp. Voldemort's mangled corpse came to rest above the rear wheels, wedged into the wheel well. The cement mixer's screaming brakes finally took effect, and it came to a halt.

Harry was stricken with sadness for the fallen, but his brain was starting to comprehend what he just saw. Voldemort was dead, with only a few scattered fragments of his soul remaining. _For now_, it was over. He felt genuine happiness…

Combined with the piercing pain in his body, the tangle of confused emotions was too much to bear. Harry slumped over onto the sidewalk and lost consciousness.

Just then, the driver of the cement truck opened the door and stepped out of the cabin. He walked over to the rear wheel hubs and saw Voldemort's splattered, grisly corpse and the smear of blood on the road. He ripped his company hat off his head and threw it to the ground.

**"AH, SHIT! NOT AGAIN!"**

* * *

_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, _Chapter 17, Bathilda's Secret, page 278, __UK__ child's edition_

* * *


	2. Chapter II: My Goodness My Guinness!

**_Chapter Two: _****_My Goodness My Guinness!_**

Bathilda Bagshot was confused. She had a lovely conversation with a nice blonde lady, but now she couldn't remember anything they talked about. She vaguely remembered talking about some old man she knew whose name started with a _D_.

But what was his name again? And who was the nice blonde lady who pointed her wand at her and asked her questions?

The nice blonde lady had left a while ago. Was it five minutes or five hours? She couldn't remember. Bathilda had a sudden urge to chase down the blond lady and thank her for the pleasant interview.

Without looking, Bathilda Bagshot walked into the middle of the street, completely oblivious to the cement mixer coming her way…

* * *

Ben the cement truck driver bent over to get a closer look at the body stuck in the wheel well. The skin was incredibly pale, as if all of the blood had already leaked out, leaving the corpse colourless. However, that was perfectly possible, seeing how much blood was on the body, the tyres, the underside of the truck, and the asphalt. The corpse was, of course, unmoving.

This was the second time this… _incident_ had happened to him. And what were the chances of having it happen in the exact same spot as the first time? Several months earlier, he had been driving the same cement mixer, but then in broad daylight in front of the exact same house, a shrivelled, aged woman had walked right in front of his truck when he was passing by. She instantly expired.

He thought he was going to get the sack that time, but enough witnesses had said that, thankfully, it wasn't his fault. The old woman had stepped in front of his truck without looking, without a care in the world. He had honked the horn and stomped on the brakes, but that hadn't been enough.

But now, were there any witnesses who saw what he had done now, just barely a minute ago? He tore his eyes from the mutilated carcass and looked around.

Behind him on the opposite side of the road, lying on the footpath, was another body. "Oh God…" Ben murmured as he walked, trance-like towards it.

He looked down at the body. It was a tall, lanky teenager, with messy black hair and big, round glasses. Then Ben noticed some peculiar things about the boy. He wore a silver locket around his neck and was clutching a smooth, broken stick in his other hand. Most astonishing of all was the scar on his forehead, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

He couldn't understand how there were two bodies here, when he had only run over one –_ actually, make that two_ – people. Then his senses caught up with him. He put his fingers to the boy's neck, feeling for a pulse…

A huge wave of relief washed over Ben. The boy with the scar and black hair's heart was indeed beating, and he was breathing ever so faintly. He figured that the teenager must have passed out upon seeing him run over the pale man stuck in the wheel well of his cement mixer.

He looked around, to see if anybody was nearby and could help, but there was none. He was alone in the dark, with a mutilated dead man and an unconscious teenager. But he was in a residential neighbourhood… there were houses all over the place.

Ben spotted the house directly behind his cement mixer. It was the same house that the old woman presumably lived, the same house he had now run over two people in front of. The last time, the house looked unkempt and derelict, but now it looked much worse. There was a shattered window on the second storey, and he could see the night sky through it. The rear of that room had been completely blown apart.

The scene was getting steadily more terrible. First he ran over and killed the pale man. Then he discovered the unconscious boy, and now a destroyed house. He ran through the front gate, wondering if it could get any worse…

It did. Lying in the overgrown grass on the front lawn was another teenager: a girl. She had big, bushy brown hair that fell elegantly past her face and shoulders. She too held a wooden stick in her hand, but this one was unbroken. She also must have fainted like the boy. Ben put his hand to her neck, feeling for the main artery…

Nothing. She was as cold as ice. There was no pulse, and no breathing at all. He lifted her body gently, examining it. There were no wounds of any sort that he could see: she must have had… _a heart attack?_ That was the first thing that came to mind.

The wailing cry of a police siren grew in the distance. Flashing blue lights went round and round, getting closer…

Ben swore loudly. He was in for a rough night.

* * *

Ben pried open another Guinness from the refrigerator. The cap popped off with a _pssshhh!_ sound and he was hit by the stiff aroma of alcohol and barley. The smell was warm and inviting, puzzling considering the fact that the mist from the bottle's neck was cold and damp.

Ben didn't care. He took a swig. He swallowed. _Glunk!_ An air bubble from his mouth floated up through the beer to the top and popped, making the upturned bottle's contents swish around. He lowered the bottle and burped a satisfied sigh.

_My Goodness My Guinness!_ he thought to himself. In times like these, a beer – or several – could make all of the difference. He lounged in his most comfortable chair in front of the television. At his feet was a rubbish bin with several empty Guinness bottles in it. He wasn't watching anything in particular on the television: it was just background noise. The Guinness on the other hand…

He vaguely considered that he should be feeling low, or maybe panicky even. But he wasn't. The bottle in his hand gave him a strange calm, an assurance that nothing was wrong and everything would sort itself out in the end. And it would. The Guinness told him that he shouldn't worry that he had killed an old woman with his cement truck months ago, or that he just last night killed a man in the exact same fashion and caused a girl to die of shock and a boy to pass out, or that he had been fired, or that he had absolutely no idea what he would do from now on without a job.

"My Goodness My Guinness!" he said, this time aloud. It was… _funny!_ The old posters from back when used to say "Guinness is good for you!" Now Ben understood why. Normally, considering his situation, he would feel, well… _like shit_. But now, he was content. Maybe even happy. It was a good feeling.

The man on the television screen was saying nothing in particular, and pointing at nothing of any importance. Ben pressed the little button on the remote and the channel changed. This time a woman was sitting in front of a desk with pictures of owls in flight behind her. Ben only heard bits and pieces of what she was saying…

"…are perplexed as to why the nation's owls are unusually active today… hundreds of owls sighted in broad daylight all over the country–"

Ben changed the channel again.

"…downpour of shooting stars… unusual fireworks…"

Ben yawned loudly. He raised the bottle to take another swallow–

Crack!

A stream of Guinness with some spittle jettisoned itself from Ben's mouth. He choked and looked over his shoulder at the sliding glass door behind him. He caught a fleeting glimpse of something falling to the ground: a brown, blurry something.

Ben put the bottle down on the coffee table and ambled over to the glass door. Outside at the foot of the door on his flat's balcony was a dazed, quivering brown… _owl?_ Even stranger to Ben was the letter still clamped in its beak. He slid open the door.

As if waiting for that very moment, the owl staggered inside and dropped the letter on the carpet. With a weak hoot and a shudder, the owl ruffled its wings and flapped feebly outside.

Ben blinked. He was stunned. He had just been given a letter by an _owl_. Was he imagining things? His thoughts meandered back to the numerous liquor bottles by his favourite chair. _That must be it_, he reasoned. _God I'm drunk_.

He looked down at the floor… and the letter was still there. Ben picked it up and was surprised to discover that it _wasn't_ a figment of his imagination. Ben didn't really get post from anyone, and he had no idea who would send him a letter, especially by owl. He examined the letter curiously.

The envelope was of a thick, parchment-like paper. He broke the wax seal and pulled out the letter and read:

_Dear Mr. Benjamin Dover,_

_Thank you so very, very much… blah blah defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… blah blah_–

Ben walked over to his chair and plopped himself in it again. He drank another mouthful of Guinness and tried to read the rest of the letter over the noise from the television:

_… Something… something… You-Know-Who… blah blah blah… Thank you so much… you have made the world a better, brighter place… blah blah…_

Ben rubbed his eyes. The letters were starting to waver on the parchment and it was getting harder to read. He gave up on the letter and pulled out another piece of parchment from the envelope.

On the piece of paper was a childish drawing of a cement truck running over a pale man with red eyes… _and the picture was moving!_

"Whoa!" Ben exclaimed. He blinked and rubbed his eyes furiously and stared at the picture. The cement mixer ran over the pale man in the black cloak again… and again… and again…

What was going on? Was this some person's idea of a joke? The bottom of the drawing said "Thank you," of all things to say! This person was taunting him for getting fired after running over two people: most recently the pale man. Ben was starting to feel confused and angry…

Before he could do anything about the mocking drawing, another owl flew in through the still-open door, dropped a letter onto his lap, and soared out.

Ben launched himself out of his chair and slammed the door shut. He returned to his chair and ripped open the second letter:

_Dear Mr. Dover,_

_I never thought I would be saying this…blah blah… Muggle… ridding us of You-Know-Who…something… blah blah blah… thank you so much…_

There were some words he didn't recognise, like "Muggle." And who exactly was this "You-Know-Who" or "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" fellow? Why couldn't any of these people just _tell_ him?

Inside the second envelope was something round and heavy. Ben reached in and pulled out a large, shiny, gold coloured coin. He eyed it curiously. It didn't have the Queen's face on it, and the coin proclaimed itself to be worth one "Galleon." It was incredibly shiny. Could it be real gold? Ben vaguely remember reading somewhere that gold was soft… and he could… er… test to see if it was real gold by biting it to see if it bent! That was it! Ben bit the coin.

"OW!"

There was an excruciating pain in Ben's jaw. The coin fell on his leg with a soft _thump!_ Ben drained the last of the liquor in the Guinness bottle and swished the contents around his mouth. It helped the pain a tiny bit.

After swallowing, he picked up the coin and examined it. There were very shallow, faint teeth marks running on the top and bottom: it was real gold! But his jaw still hurt like hell for the painful pleasure of making that discovery.

Ben didn't know whether he could be any more confused than he already was. Some people he didn't know had just sent him letters by owls to thank him for running over some man. One person had even given him a gold coin. Was it a joke? Were they taunting him? Were they genuinely grateful? He had no idea.

**Wham!**

For the second time, an owl crashed straight into the glass door. Ben dropped the coin and ran over the door again to open it. When he did, another two owls zoomed into his flat through the open door, dropped off their letters, and flew off. He had just picked up the letter from the dazed owl lying on his balcony when he heard singing behind him.

Ben turned around to see one of the letters lying open, and he could have sworn it was singing. Either that, or he had way too much to drink. Since letters couldn't sing, it was probably the latter.

_"The cement mixer's wheels turned round and round,_

_And You-Know-Who was stamped into the ground,_

_The brakes screeched and the truck slowed to zero,_

_Out came Ben, the Wizarding World's hero!"_

He was very drunk. Letters can't sing! Pictures can't move! But there was a singing letter and a moving picture of him running over a guy in his flat. _But damn… do I need another beer_, Ben's very confused brain said.

**BOOM!**

There was a crash of glass and a rush of hot air. The room was flooded with noise and a brilliant orange light. Ben looked at the glass door yet again to discover it broken, but what was beyond made his mouth gape open in surprise and wonder.

Outside was the most spectacular display of fireworks Ben had ever seen. There were explosions of every colour, spinners whizzed about, and rockets zoomed and spiralled. Most astonishing of all were the two huge, blazing and sparking and exploding words, floating in the air:

GO BEN!

Sparklers were floating in midair and waving about, spelling things like _Thank You!_, _You Rule!_, or _Hurrah!_ The noise was deafening and the spectacular sight was painful to look at. In through the broken door, another owl soared inside and dropped off a blood-red letter from its beak. The red letter started smoking and there was a screaming woman's voice, but it was barely audible over the explosions and bangs of the fireworks.

_"How dare you kill– _**BANG!** –_you filthy Muggle animal– _**POW! BOOM! **–_trix Lestrange is coming for you, Muggle. Consider your days numb– _**BLAM!**

A stray firework went _wheeee!_ and screamed into the flat, sputtering and showering sparks all over the place. Some more owls dropped by and delivered more singing letters, which added to the chaotic clash of explosions, singing, ranting, and yelling (that was Ben) that filled the room.

Another owl flew inside with a letter, and then another with a package. Before Ben knew it, the package burst apart and out came a flock of white doves in the middle of his flat.

"AAAHHH!"

There was a bang from a firework close to his ear, and a flying dove narrowly missed his face. He waved his arms wildly five seconds too late to make any difference to the bird's flight path: his inebriated reaction time wasn't too good.

Ben looked at what could only be described as pandemonium. The television was still blaring nothing in particular. Several loose fireworks were zipping and exploding around the room. Owls were flying in and out, bringing in more and more letters and packages. About a dozen different letters now were either screaming or singing. The sight was utterly weird. Ben had no idea whether any of it was real or just a product of numerous empty Guinness bottles.

Ben ran from the living room to the kitchen. Whether the chaos he left was real or not was of no importance to him. What Ben needed now was a good, stiff drink. He pulled out his last bottle of Guinness from the refrigerator and locked himself inside his bedroom.

He quickly collapsed on the bed and pried the bottle cap off. The welcome scent of the bottle's contents greeted him, inviting him to gulp it all down. And he did.

_My Goodness My Guinness!_ he thought to himself as he drank, now only vaguely aware of the tremendous noise from the living room.


	3. Chapter III: The Great Chocolate War

**_Chapter Three: The Great Chocolate War of '98_**

**FIRST ISSUE BENJAMIN ****DOVER**** CHOCOLATE FROG CARDS TO BE RELEASED!**

_As little as three months ago, the fate of Wizarding __Britain__ looked bleak. The Ministry of Magic had fallen, and we bore witness to horrors unseen in the last war. However, the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to an unexpected end on Christmas Day 1997, thanks to a Muggle cement truck driver named Benjamin Dover._

_And now after a long-overdue three months, Gniddup's Sweets has announced the release of the highly anticipated Benjamin Dover Chocolate Frog Cards, completing the **Heroes of the Second War **Chocolate Frog Card series (for a complete list of the cards, see page 7). The first 50 cards in print will be released in sweet shops throughout __Britain__ on 27th March, with normal production to commence a week later._

Roy cut out the article from the _Daily Prophet_ clumsily with a pair of scissors. After doing so, he read the article another time… and again…

_About time!_ he thought to himself. This was it. He needed that card, and soon… but 27th March was still a few days away. It would be an agonising wait.

Roy heard footsteps approaching his cubicle in the Broom Regulatory Control, and he instantly knew who they belonged to.

"Hey Frank," Roy said without turning at all, "do you remember our bet?"

"What?" was Frank's reply.

Roy didn't elaborate, but instead grabbed the article, turned around, and handed it to Frank. His co-worker's bushy black eyebrows narrowed and his dark eyes skimmed back and forth as he read.

"Of course!" Frank chuckled when he finished it. "I don't want to lose my hard-earned cash, do I?"

"Yes you do. You want to give it to _me_. So are we on, then?"

Frank smiled widely and offered his hand. "You bet we are!" he agreed (_Hey, that's a pun!_). Roy shook his hand. With that done, Frank walked away. "Better watch out on the 27th," he said as he disappeared from view–

Frank came running back about ten seconds later. "I completely forgot why I walked over to your cubicle to begin with! We still have to draft that quota on Brazilian broomsticks…"

* * *

The _Magic is Might_ statue in the Ministry of Magic's atrium had been blown up within a week of You-Know-Who's downfall. All that was left of that horrible monument were countless pieces of rubble, which incidentally made good souvenirs. Roy in fact had a few pieces on display on top of his fireplace.

In the place of that statue was a new monument, which had gone up with almost the same speed as the previous one was taken down. This new memorial fountain consisted of a round concrete plinth rising out of the water, with a large rectangular pedestal of pure white marble on top of it. Inscribed at the top of the pedestal in gold letters were the words _Sic Semper Tyrannis_, and below it the names of all who had fallen in both wars fighting against evil and tyranny.

But enshrined on top of the marble pedestal was _it_, the very cement mixer that had defeated the Dark Lord, displayed in all its massive, shiny, and grim glory. The vehicle was huge, dwarfing any family-sized broom or flying carpet. Roy, along with many people who saw the fountain, wondered why Muggles needed such large, imposing machines (that couldn't even fly!) to get around. Though they never knew the answer, they were simply thankful that the huge Muggle contraption was big enough to deliver the Wizarding World out of the darkness.

The massive egg-shaped part of the cement mixer slowly rotated, and water cascaded out of the opening at the rear and down the chute into the fountain's base, which was littered with coins. The truck was highly polished and gleaming; the rippling reflection of the water made it look like the sides of the vehicle and its pedestal were moving. However, marring the gleaming cement mixer's wheels, bottom, and parts of the sides were streaks of shocking crimson. You-Know-Who's magically preserved blood stayed as a reminder of the brutality of his regime and the justice meted out to him.

Roy stopped at the sign at the fountain's edge that declared that all proceeds from the Triumph Fountain would go St. Mungo's. Unfortunately, selfless charity wasn't the reason why most people pooled their precious money into the fountain: ever since the victory monument had gone up, it was good luck to throw a Galleon into the spinning opening of the cement mixer where the water came out. At any rate, that's what people _said_.

Roy pulled out a shiny Galleon from his pocket. Making a wish was easy: he wanted to win that bet with Frank, and badly. He aimed for the top of the chute. It was a long shot: the cement mixer's opening was at the tip of the revolving egg-shaped part, which was the highest part of the vehicle. Furthermore, the truck was on top of the marble pedestal, which was on top of the low concrete plinth (made from the very cement that was in the truck that fateful day). Nevertheless, some people _did_ make it, since coins thrown into the revolving part occasionally came out with the water, tumbling down the chute. With that in mind, Roy pulled back his arm and threw.

It missed. It didn't even hit the cement mixer at all, instead sailing over the top. Undoubtedly, some lucky person of the other side of the fountain just got one Galleon richer. Cursing his bad aim, Roy picked out another Galleon and tried again. That one was closer, but it landed in the chute and was carried into the fountain by the torrent of water.

It was bad luck to give up after having started the wish-making-coin-throwing process, so Roy dutifully (albeit unhappily) threw three more Galleons. The first two missed, but the last one finally soared into the cement mixer's cavernous abyss.

"YES!" he exclaimed. Some people looked up from their busy routine and stared, but Roy paid no attention. _I better win that bet now!_ he assured himself. _That wish cost me five Galleons!_

With his mission complete, Roy walked away from the fountain, and saw from the corner of his eye some hopefuls emulating his example, throwing coins and hoping to get lucky.

Roy left the Ministry of Magic and entered Diagon Alley. Only a few months ago, it was almost deserted. Now however, it was business as usual. And speaking of business…

There was a clutter of people in front of the sweet shop. Not _in_ it, but outside with lawn chairs and tents even, despite the fact that the shop was already open.

Then it hit him. The twenty or so people cluttered around the shop were staking their places in line for the 27th of March, the day the first 50 Benjamin Dover cards would come out. The realisation washed over him like a wave of ice.

_They are going to get it first!_ his panicking brain screamed. He needed to do something about it!

Disturbed, Roy Apparated back home. He opened the front door and found his young son Danny playing with his toy cement mixer and Benjamin Dover action figure. Roy walked right past (hurriedly answering Danny's screams of "Daddy!") and went straight to the bedroom.

He got a bag and threw a couple changes of clothes and blankets in it. He then stormed to the kitchen and grabbed whatever non-perishable food he could find.

"What are you doing?" a startled female voice said. Roy turned around and was confronted by Rachel. "You're not leaving us?"

Before he knew it and without thinking, Roy answered, "Yes."

"WHAT?" his wife squawked.

"No no no no!" he said frantically, trying to repair the damage. "I didn't mean that! Well... not in that way!"

They shouted at each other for a bit, until Roy finally managed to calm Rachel down. His explanation only inflamed her once again.

"No! I won't let you run away from your job and family for half a week to go chase after Chocolate Frog Cards! What are you thinking?"

"But Darling, do you know how important this is? I'm talking about the first _fifty_ Benjamin Dover cards! Do you have any idea how _valuable_ they'll end up being? Imagine how much money we could sell them for later!"

Rachel didn't budge. "I don't care! You're family is more important than some stupid card! What about me? What about Danny? Give me a reason why that card is more important!"

Roy stuttered, unable to respond to his furious wife; it was scary to look at her. "I… I… h-ha-"

Her eyes widened. "Oh no… don't tell me. Sweet Merlin, Roy! You're not gambling, are you?"

Roy slowly nodded. He could almost see the flames bursting out from her furious nostrils. She might as well have been a Common Welsh Green if she wasn't blonde.

"Fine!" she shouted. "Fine! If some stupid bet is more important to you than your family or your job, go right ahead! Go! Get out!"

"I–I–" Roy stammered.

"OUT!"

* * *

Roy was not in a good mood when he staked out his claim in front of the sweet shop. First of all, he was about twentieth in line. Secondly, his wife had thrown him out of the house. Only then did he realise that he still hadn't packed a chair or a tent, or anything; he would have to stay outside in from of the shop for three days. What would he do once night came?

_Why does Rachel have to be such a pain in the arse?_ Roy fumed to himself. He sat on his blanket, immersed in angry thoughts for a few hours.

At least he had a place in line…

That night was horrible. Nobody had extra room in their tents (or more likely, they didn't want to aid the _competition_), so he huddled in his blanket, vainly trying to trap whatever warmth escaped from his body. The stone street was hard and cold, and _uncomfortable_ wasn't an adequate word to describe it.

Roy woke up the next morning quiet miserable. He was cold and hungry. Though he couldn't do much for the cold besides willing the sun to rise faster, he could alleviate his angry stomach, somewhat. He drank some of the little water he had and ate about half of the precious food he hoarded in his bag, which happened to be a carrot and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. He entertained himself (unsuccessfully) trying to find the buttered toast flavoured bean, because that's what he was craving at the moment. Roy savoured its taste once he found it, but he passionately wished that he could have eaten the real thing.

Slowly, the shadows retreated and Roy and the other campers in front of the shop were bathed in the morning sunlight. _Warmth at last!_ his brain screamed, relieved. Soon enough, Diagon Alley buzzed with shoppers, and a blonde woman with a rolled-up sleeping bag joined the campers at the sweet shop line.

After about an hour of people-watching and reflecting on just how impossible his wife was, Roy suddenly found himself in dire need of a toilet. He had no idea whether the shops had any loos he could use, but that wasn't his worry. His place in line was at stake.

Roy looked at the next person in line: the blonde woman who had just set up camp an hour ago. She was busy reading a book… or was she? She was probably just waiting for an opportunity to steal Roy's place, the moment he left to go relieve himself. He quickly found himself hating her, the bloodthirsty parasite!

The woman noticed Roy staring at her and tried ignoring it. That lasted about ten seconds, because Roy's gaze was fixed upon her thin book-reading-but-waiting-to-pounce façade. _Grrr…_

Her eyes flicked up from her book (_Cement Mixer Deliverance: How the Wizarding World Was Saved_) and almost immediately returned to the pages. Roy could tell she wasn't really reading: her eyes were focused on one part and they didn't move. Either that, or she was a very slow reader, like a sloth or a banana.

It was an epic battle of wills. The evil blonde demon lady hid behind her book pretending to read, occasionally looking to see whether Roy was still there, ready to strike in his absence. But Roy _was_ still there, and he had no intention of leaving. He would not give in! If she wanted his place, she would have to fight him! He wouldn't leave. NEVER!

Unfortunately, the enemy had a few tricks up her sleeve. The pressure in Roy's bladder was steadily building…

NO! He would not succumb to such a trifling thing as going to the toilet! She would have to force him! HA!

_Curses!_ Roy cursed to himself, thoroughly desiring to curse the woman into a pile of curse-residue blobs. She _was_ forcing him! He desperately needed to go...

Roy was breathing heavily, and his face started to turn red. To the woman, this only made him look even more alarming – _No, fearsome! She must fear my awesome wrath! Those Chocolate Frog Cards will be mine! MINE!_

He couldn't take it anymore. _Damn her!_ _Damn her to hell and gone!_ he thought vehemently. In a blaze of fury Roy stood up and confronted her.

"All right you TWO-FACED BASTARD… _ette!_" he screamed at her startled face. "Fine! Take my place, damn you! But you'll regret this! I never forget a face!"

Roy turned away from the startled woman and bolted to the back of the sweet shop where the loos were.

_Ahhhhh…_

He left the shop to find his place… _empty!_ Nobody – not even the blonde woman – took his spot! He had triumphed!

The blonde woman was cowering behind her book again, now quite a distance away from his spot. Her eyes widened as she spotted Roy coming her way. She shifted uncomfortably and turned her back to him, and then proceeded to dive into her book with reckless abandon.

_There she is… biding her time_.She had only moved a little farther away to lull Roy into a sense of false security. He must be watchful!

By the end of the day, she had summoned more reinforcements to her cause. Two men set up a tent behind her sleeping bag, and now Roy had his attention divided between _three_ adversaries. How could he win now? They'll storm in and take his place in line for sure now!

But Roy was not entirely alone. Rachel finally took pity on him and visited him that night, bringing blankets, food, and a tent borrowed from some friends. She failed to convince Roy to come home, and to forget about the Benjamin Dover cards.

"Danny misses you," she had said.

"Tell him I miss him too," Roy responded, "but I have a big job that I have to do."

After more unsuccessful pleading, Rachel finally conceded defeat and left Roy with the extra provisions. Eager to avoid another frigid, arse-freezing night, Roy hurriedly set up the tent and dragged his current worldly possessions inside.

That night was just as uncomfortable as the first. Though he had a warm sleeping bag and a tent to sleep in, he got little sleep. He could hear voices outside through the canvas, the voices of his enemies plotting to take his place in line. He even heard some footsteps, because one of them was undoubtedly reconnoitring his position.

Roy sat upright with his wand gripped tensely in his hand. He was fully expecting someone to burst into the tent, dispatch him, and take his place in line. He could not – _will not_ – allow that. He had suffered too much to let that happen.

There was no assault on the tent by daybreak. _Typical_, thought Roy. _They're just observing and waiting for their chance_.

The next morning passed without much incident, _much_ being the key word. Roy spent most of his time staring across no-man's-land at his adversaries, but he had a visitor at around lunchtime.

It was his co-worker whom he had the bet with, Frank. He looked distinctly agitated.

"There you are, Roy!" he declared. "The boss is going ballistic! You've been missing from work for two days without a word! You should have at least _told_ him you were taking time off before pulling a stunt like this."

"Well, sorry," Roy said evasively. "Just tell him that I'm here and still work for him."

"Don't you get it? He could _fire_ you. Please, just return to work for the day to let him know you're still alive. Can you do that?"

Roy took a moment before responding. He looked at the enemy horde behind his place in line, undoubtedly talking about how they were going to steal his position. "No I can't," Roy finally answered. "I'll lose my place in line."

"No you won't," Frank replied quickly. "Please just show up to work for at least a few hours, okay? I don't want to face the boss alone. You know how he just blames everything on the closest person to him, i.e. _me_."

Silence… Roy was still staring intently at the opposition.

Frank waited for a few moments before blurting, "What are you staring at?"

"Them," Roy answered simply.

"Them?"

"Yep," confirmed Roy. "_Them_. They're trying to take my place in line. Just last night, they were examining my position. They're bound to strike soon."

It took a few seconds for the horrifying meaning of these words to sink into Frank. However, his reaction wasn't what Roy was expecting.

"Have you gone completely mental?" he hollered. "They're not planning any _Roy-hostile-takeover-tent!_ They're just sitting there! See?"

"HA!" Roy scoffed. "_You_ haven't seen anything. Besides, how would _you_ know? You've been cooped up at the office for the last two days."

"Well, if you're going to act like a total idiot, I guess I'll just piss off then. I'll tell the boss that you've lost your marbles." declared Frank as he walked off.

"Remember, we still have that bet!" Roy called out to his retreating backside. Roy discovered that he hated his co-worker with a passion once he had left. That man tried to get him to abandon his quest, clearly trying to sabotage his efforts to ensure that _he_ won the bet. _I've got news for you, mate! It didn't work! I saw right through you! Ha!_

Then came a disconcerting thought. Could Frank be in league with the evil blonde lady and her minions? He had to be! Roy's situation suddenly looked very dire; never before had he faced adversity on such a scale.

Only to make matters worse, his enemies were multiplying like mutant demon rabbits of the Apocalypse. Another two campers joined the line, and then another person, and then a group of three…

And just like the cruel rodents they were, they appeared to be inoffensive to the untrained eye. Roy observed how they all pretended to talk to each other, or pretended to read the newspaper, or how they pretended to do… pretendy things! They were very good at the arts of deception and subterfuge, but they couldn't fool Roy!

Faced with such overwhelming numbers, Roy realised the need to fortify his tent against the inevitable onslaught. He found himself wishing that he had paid more attention in Defence Against the Dark Arts while at Hogwarts. Then he could put some _real_ curses on the tent, not the simple kid stuff he knew. Nevertheless, Roy placed a creative combination of jinxes on the tent's opening. Whoever tried to break into his tent and steal his place would be very unhappy.

But Roy was also very unhappy. What if the first person on the assault sacrificed himself by absorbing all of the jinxes, leaving the way clear for the rest of the group? Roy needed a second line of defence, and he knew just where to get it!

Anxious to not let the enemy take advantage of his absence, Roy hurtled himself into the Magical Menagerie, bought what he needed, and came bursting out with several ill-tempered, belligerent biting mousetraps. _Perfect!_

He ran back to his tent, but what he saw made his heart skip a beat. The battle had begun! The blonde woman was leading the assault, reaching for the tent flap! Her finger touched the canvas–

If she was conscious, she would have said something like _bbluubbaaarrrggghhh!_

But she didn't, because she was instantly concussed by the torrent of hexes and jinxes, and the effect was very unsightly, since it involved boils, nostril hair, and other things best not mentioned. _Holy crap!_ he thought to himself, astounded by the results of his jinxing skills.

"Holy crap!" yelled a female voice, echoing Roy's thoughts exactly, but aloud. There were running footsteps… and there appeared the blonde woman!

Roy did a double take. He looked at the startled conscious blonde woman, and then looked at the hideous unconscious blonde woman by the tent flap. Roy noticed a familiar gold ring on the concussed body's finger…

"By Godric! Not you too!" he wailed despairingly. Now Roy was truly alone. First his friend, and now his wife had deserted him and entered the enemy's ranks. Will they stop at nothing to steal his place?

Soon enough, her limp form was carried away to St. Mungo's by a team of mediwizards someone had summoned. Roy watched the occasion unfold, morose. How would he explain to Danny what she had done? _Mum did something really bad. Maybe you'll know when you're older_. That sounded horrible and very inadequate.

But once her body was out of sight, Roy's thoughts reverted back to anger. _How could you? This is a betrayal of the worst kind!_ He accepted the uncomfortable fact that the two of them would have to have a _very_ serious discussion once the situation had blown over…

But no matter how deceitfully his enemies, Frank, and Rachel conspired to steal his place in line or sabotage his efforts, Roy remained by his tent, immobile. Though his resolve was unyielding, he shuddered to think of what awaited him, seeing what his adversaries had done already. _This is just getting better and better_, his mind scathed. He had only one more night to go, but it would be the toughest yet.

Night came. Roy sat on top of his blankets in the tent, facing the flap that opened to the chaotic world outside. He was ready. All of the hexes and jinxes were in place. The biting mousetraps were growling at the floor by the tent flap, eager to tear apart any bodily appendage that dared to reveal itself. And lastly there was Roy, with his wand gripped firmly in both hands, ready to cause great pain at 5/7 of a moment's notice.

He sat there for a long time.

Light permeated through the canvas walls, and the sides of the tent seemed to emanate an eerie glow. Day had arrived. Now was the hour of destiny, and only one side would emerge triumphant.

Carefully manoeuvring past his booby traps, Roy exited his tent. With a wave of his wand, it collapsed and folded itself. The biting mousetraps trapped inside snapped angrily at the crushing canvas.

His dreary eyes drank in his surroundings. The horde was awakening and packing, and eating their breakfasts. Roy didn't; he wasn't hungry, but he was immensely tired having stayed awake the whole night. However, the thought of his inevitable victory was enough to sustain him. He simply stood at his place in line.

Some time flew past, and the rest had finished whatever they were doing and stood in line too. Roy was sandwiched between his foes in front and in back, but no matter what side or affiliation, they all stared transfixed at the door, at the placard that said _CLOSED_.

With a jingle of a bell, a hand from inside the shop turned the sign around so it read _OPEN_.

POW! They were off. Roy quickly found himself stampeded by the pulsating mass of people behind him, pressing his body in the people in front trying to squeeze through the door.

_NO! I haven't suffered for three days, only to be trampled underfoot!_ Roy was being pressed into the ground, hemmed in by the avalanche of human bodies. With great difficulty, Roy slid his arm along his side and into his pocket, and retrieved his wand. He jammed it into the closest body to him, which wasn't all that far.

_"Expulso! Incendio! Tarantallegra! Rictusempra!"_

Roy yelled whatever hexes came to mind, and he wasn't the only one to do so. There was a flurry of spells fired in all directions at point blank range, hitting everyone trying to squeeze through the doorway. If anything, resorting to cursing the opposition only seemed to make progress go slower.

Finally, Roy managed to hack his way through the crowd. He burst through the door and was sprawled on the ground, winded from the compression of all of the bodies pressed together. But Roy didn't have any time to waste; he launched himself from the ground and ran to the Chocolate Frog section–

He was too late! The twenty or so people in front of him in line had already cleared all of the shelves of Chocolate Frogs, and they were crowded at the counter! A few had finished paying and left with bulging sacks stuffed with Chocolate Frogs, those bastards!

Mind racing, Roy ran to the counter… and there was the blonde lady! How did _she_ get through the door before him? But even more horrifying to his eyes was the last Chocolate Frog on the counter and the two Sickles, three Knuts in her hand…

BAM!

"I'll pay you _five_ Sickles for that Chocolate Frog!" declared Roy as he forcefully slammed the money on the counter.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't do that," the cashier said. BAM! Roy put down another two Sickles, and the woman behind the counter once again refused. BAM! Roy pitched in another three Sickles.

"That's my Chocolate Frog, mister!" the blonde woman said to Roy. "And it costs two Sickles, three Knuts."

BAM! Roy slapped a Galleon on the counter. "Well, let's see how much you want it then!" he yelled back at the blonde woman. Then he rounded on the cashier and said, "So, would you rather have the one Galleon, ten Sickles or the two Sickles, three Knuts?"

The woman behind the counter hesitated. "Well, I…"

BAM! Now Roy added another Galleon to the growing pile of coins. The cashier move a hand towards Roy's money–

BAM!

"Three Galleons!" was the new increase, but it was the blonde lady who offered it. She looked at Roy with her eyes narrowed and smiling malevolently.

BAM! Four Galleons. BAM! Six Galleons–

BAM! Another person in the shop entered the bidding war, and then another.

BAM! Ten! BAM! Twelve!

It could have gone on forever, but Roy wasn't in the mood. He grabbed a fistful of coins from his pocket and threw them at the counter. Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts went flying everywhere as they ricocheted off its wooden surface.

"THERE! IT'S MINE!" he exploded, and before anyone could do anything, he grabbed the last Chocolate Frog and bolted out of the shop and out the door, completely forgetting about his things left outside.

"WHOOHOO!" he proclaimed to the heavens. "YES! HA HA HA!"

It was pure bliss that words couldn't describe. Roy held the Chocolate Frog above his head for all to see as he ran down Diagon Alley, whooping with glee and oblivious to the stares he was attracting.

Roy hurried over to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and sat at a table outside. He didn't get any ice cream since he had spent all of his money on the Chocolate Frog, but he didn't care: he didn't need ice cream to celebrate! Once seated, he held the very expensive sweet in his hands and examined it with wonder.

He swelled with ecstasy. At last, the Benjamin Dover Chocolate Frog Card was his! His hands trembled as he vigorously ripped the package open–

And out fell a Chocolate Frog and a card. Totally ignoring the chocolate, he instead feasted his eyes on the Benjamin Dover card–

**Kingsley Shacklebolt**

_Kingsley Shacklebolt?_

_KINGSLEY SHACKLEBOLT!_

The cry of Roy in total agony ripped through the tranquil morning–

"AAAAAHHHHH! MERLIN'S PANTS! NOOO!"

It was as if he had–

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

–been stabbed, the pain–

"NOOOOO! WAAAAHHH!"

–was so–

"BBLUUBBAAARRRGGGHHH!"

–intense…

After regaining consciousness, Roy gingerly got off from the ground; he didn't remember falling off his seat. With a swipe of his hand, he wiped a tear from his face. Roy was a broken man: the shock had mortally wounded him.

Roy sat in the seat, breathing heavily. _How could this have happened?_ he thought despairingly. He noticed the detestable _Kingsley Shacklebolt_ Chocolate Frog card lying on the ground at his feet. He picked it up and furiously ripped it to shreds. _They cheated me! They were supposed to put Benjamin Dover cards on the shelves!_

The anguish quickly subsided to be replaced by anger boiling in his throbbing veins. No longer was he Roy the distraught, oh no; the humiliation had created a monster!

_I – AM – VENGEANCE!_ his psychotic mind proclaimed. _That Benjamin Dover card will be mine, and NOTHING WILL STOP ME!_

Cackling insanely, Roy the Avenger leapt from his seat, alive with manic energy. He tore his way through the back streets and arrived at the locked rear entrance of the sweet shop. The staff would be busy attending customers, so they wouldn't notice him–

A simple _Alohomora_ was sufficient to get through the rear door. _So naïve, they are…_

Roy the Avenger snapped the door shut once he was through. After a few moments of searching, he found the entrance to the cellar and climbed down the dark steps.

There it was. Boxes upon boxes of Chocolate Frogs! How many of them contained Benjamin Dover cards? At least one of them, for sure…

He aimed his wand at one of the boxes. _"Portus,"_ he said, and the box glowed blue. After a second or so, the Portkey disappeared as it travelled to Roy the Avenger's house. He repeated this process for the rest of the boxes–

Suddenly, the dark cellar was flooded with light. One of the staff members was coming down the steps! But he wasn't done stealing all of the boxes!

"…sold out _again!_" he heard the man mumble.

_"STUPEFY!"_ Roy the Avenger roared. The red spell narrowly missed hitting the man in the face.

"WHOA!" the man yelled. He whipped out his wand and sent a stunner back at Roy the Avenger.

They traded fire, but then–

CRASH!

_Darkness_…

* * *

Roy was lying down on his back on something soft. There was a bright light bludgeoning its way through Roy's eyelids. He tried fighting it, but it was no use. Groaning and annoyed, he opened his eyes, and the image of Rachel sitting beside his hospital bed swam into view.

"You, my friend, are in very deep trouble," she said.

"Wuh?"

"I said, you're in trouble!"

"No, no. I heard you. I mean, why am I in trouble? Why are you so angry?"

"What do you mean, why?" she squawked indignantly. "You know perfectly why! You make a bet with one of your useless friends, then you go running off for three days to sit in line for a stupid Chocolate Frog card, then you CURSE me with your booby-trapped tent, and to cap it off, you BREAK INTO THE SHOP and _STEAL_ six boxes of Chocolate Frogs, you ASSAULT one of their staff, and you get your head split open by a falling jar of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans! WHY DO YOU THINK I'M ANGRY!"

"Oh… damn–" was all Roy could say.

"_'Oh damn'_ is right, Roy!" Rachel yelled. Then she said something that almost gave Roy a heart attack.

"I want a divorce."

"WHAT?"

"I want a divorce!"

"No, I heard you just fine, but why?"

Rachel's head slumped down and she buried her face into her hands, amazed at her husband's stupidity. She muttered some exasperated curses under her breath that Roy couldn't hear.

"Look, Rachel. Sweety. I'M SORRY. I love you. Please, please stay with me," Roy pleaded.

"You – are – such – a – git!" she said through clenched teeth, finally raising her head and looking straight at Roy.

"Yes I am. I'm sorry. Can you for–"

The door to their ward opened and Roy's co-worker, Frank appeared.

"OH! Right… bad timing. Er… bye!" Frank stammered as he hastily bid his retreat.

"Wait!" Rachel called out to him, and Frank stopped dead in his tracks. "Come here!" she barked at him, and Frank meekly complied.

Once Frank arrived by Roy's bed, Rachel then rounded on Roy. "Do you love me?" she asked.

"Of course I do!" Roy replied.

"Do you want a divorce?"

"No!"

Frank sat very uncomfortably during this exchange, and looked at the ceiling awkwardly…

"Good! And are you willing to do anything to keep our marriage?" Rachel continued.

"Yes!" Roy answered instantly.

"An Unbreakable Vow?"

Roy paused to consider, but not for long. "Yes," he said heavily.

"Perfect," Rachel said cheerfully. "Now, Frank, would you consent to be our Bonder?"

Frank mumbled excuses, but consented after Rachel gave him a furious glare. Roy sat up in his bed, and noticed that his head felt heavy, since it was covered in a turban of bandages. Once upright, he and Rachel clasped their hands together, and Frank held the tip of his wand to their intertwined hands.

"Now, Roy, from this point forth, will you vow to never buy a Chocolate Frog for the rest of your life?" asked Rachel.

Roy sighed. "I will," he said. A thin strand of brilliant flame emerged from the tip of Frank's wand and bound itself around their hands.

"And will you promise to never buy another Chocolate Frog for the rest of your life?"

"Erm… you said that twice," Frank observed timidly.

"SHUT UP. As I was saying, will you promise to never buy Chocolate Frogs again for the rest of your life?"

"I will," Roy said with solemn finality. A second fiery strand wrapped around their hands.

"And will you, Roy, vow to never buy another Chocolate Frog for the rest of your life?"

"I will."

A third flaming strand emerged from Frank's wand and interlaced with the other two, binding them together. It burned brilliantly for a few moments before fading into nothingness.

"Good," scathed Rachel. "Now that _that's_ done with, we just have to worry about your hospital bill and criminal charges. You're going to need your wife to pull you through this muck!"

"Yes, darling," Roy answered, clearly humbled.

"_SO_… did you get the Benjamin Dover card?" asked Frank, drastically changing the subject.

"No."

"Pity. Neither did I, but…" Frank said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out some sweets. "…I do have two Chocolate Frogs for the two of us to share. Let us celebrate our failure!"

"Roy, have you already forgotten our Unbreakable Vow?" addressed Rachel sternly.

Frank responded before Roy could: "Ah, but you only forbade him from _buying_ Chocolate Frogs. You see, I'm _giving_ him one."

Rachel swore softly; then she admitted, "All right. You got me there."

Roy took one of the two Chocolate Frogs Frank offered him. "You first," he said to Frank.

His co-worker opened the package and ate the chocolate inside. He swallowed and then pulled out the card.

"Merlin," he said, showing it to Roy. "Your turn now."

Roy opened his package and stuffed the chocolate into his mouth. He pulled out the card and read:

**Benjamin Dover**

His eyes widened in disbelief. _There it was, at last!_

"Benjamin Dover," Roy stated simply.

"WHAT?" yelled Frank, and he hurried over to Roy's side to see the card for real. Even Rachel came over to look, her disapproval vanishing in the wake of pure curiosity.

There was Benjamin Dover, yawning in his portrait. He had scruffy brown hair underneath the company hat he was wearing, and the hairs on his chin declared he was badly in need of a shave. But Roy did not register his inauspicious appearance, because he was simply transfixed by the image of the Muggle cement truck driver who had defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The card read:

_Known as 'The-Muggle-Who-Triumphed' or 'The Liberator,' Benjamin Dover is famous for valiantly running over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with his cement mixer at Godric's Hollow on Christmas Day, 1997. He is also known for defeating notorious Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange with his toothbrush when she ambushed him in his flat a week later. Benjamin Dover enjoys U2 and rugby (a Muggle sport and a Muggle musical group, respectively)._

And at the bottom of the card was the production number: _Number Fifty!_ It was the absolute last Benjamin Dover card released that day!

The three of them sat there on the hospital bed, staring at the precious card. Finally, after an age, Frank cleared his throat.

"I guess you win that bet, then."

Roy nodded solemnly. Frank pulled out a single, shiny Galleon and handed it to him.


	4. Chapter IV: Epic Ephemeral Epilogue

_**Chapter Four: Epic Ephemeral Epilogue**_

"By Merlin, I am undone!" announced Harry Potter dramatically to the heavens. Like the tortured thespian he was, his face turned away from his foe, concealing a single, salty tear that streaked down his cheek. "Kill me now, my cruel lord. I will be able to cry with my dead parents in peace now."

The Dark Lord surveyed the Chosen One who lay on the pavement with disgust. Now it was time for him to finally rid the world of the Potter brat, hailed as the one destined to defeat him. It was time.

"I am disappointed, Harry Potter. _Very_ disappointed. I expected the _'Chosen One'_ to be a challenge, but I will grant you your wish… _**AFTER**_ _I have my fun!_" With explosive, maniacal laughter, the Dark Lord aimed his wand at the scrawny boy facing him from the opposite side of the street.

"_CRUCIO!"_ he shouted gleefully. Harry Potter screamed pathetically and crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named looked on with amusement.

"So _weak_. So _vulnerable_… but no matter. It is time for Potter to die," the Dark Lord asserted. He pointed his wand at the lifeless boy, about to end his life–

Out of the darkness, a painfully bright light illuminated the Dark Lord, standing in the middle of the street. He blinked several times, and saw a man leaning his head out of the door window of a giant cement mixer.

"Not so fast, Voldemort!" the man said to him.

The Dark Lord's crimson eyes widened, affronted. "You dare speak my name?" he hissed.

"I do," the man replied, stepping out of the vehicle and standing erect beside it. "Too long have you killed wizards, witches, and Muggles alike. Too long have torn families apart, ruined futures, and destroyed all hope for those praying for better days! It has been too long!"

"Who are you… _Muggle?_" the Dark Lord inquired with contempt.

"My name is Benjamin Dover," the cement mixer driver declared authoritatively. "Your reign of terror is at an end. Prepare to die!"

"Do you challenge me?"

"That I do, and I will do what I must," Benjamin Dover replied.

"You will _try_," taunted the Dark Lord.

Benjamin Dover climbed back inside and onto the driver's seat. He could feel the throb of the engine with his hands on the steering wheel: both man and cement mixer alike were part of one whole, alive with energy. The Dark Lord took his duelling stance in the middle of the street, and there was a sound like a gunshot from his wand. The duel had begun.

"EAT TARMAC, TYRANT!" roared Benjamin Dover as he stomped on the accelerator pedal. The cement mixer's massive tyres screeched like banshees as they spun, burning rubber and billowing smoke. The cement mixer lumbered to speed and charged at the Dark Lord.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_ he cried, hurling a Killing Curse at the incoming vehicle. Inside the cabin, Benjamin Dover flipped the switch for the windscreen wipers, _and_ _just in time_. The menacing green bolt ricocheted off the swinging blade and disappeared into the night.

He-Who-Must-Be-Named stepped aside as the cement mixer roared past, dodging it with matador-like precision. Benjamin Dover slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel sharply. The tyres screamed in protest as the cement mixer slid and almost flipped over, making a harrowing about-face. Once it crashed back onto all of its wheels and was reoriented toward his foe, the mighty vehicle attacked again.

The Dark Lord readied himself to cast another killing curse, but it was too late. Benjamin Dover's yell of _"SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!"_ was long and loud. His mighty steed, Volvo the great cement mixer, rammed into He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and the most infamous dark wizard of the ages was defeated.

The cement mixer slowed and came to a stop. Benjamin Dover dismounted and walked purposefully towards the vanquished Dark Lord: he was lying on his back, broken and bloodied and with the signature of the tyre's track imprinted down the length of his body and face.

"You f-fiend! W-what h-have you done?" He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named croaked weakly.

"What have I done?" responded Benjamin Dover, towering over the bleeding and dying dark wizard. "I have rescued the world from a dark age of evil and tyranny. I have defeated you, and now magical and Muggle people alike can enjoy a future far brighter than any of us can imagine!"

The fire behind the Dark Lord's eyes flickered and faded, staring gravely at the night sky. He gasped, "It is finished." Having said this, he breathed his last.

Benjamin Dover took off his company hat, paying his last respects to the great – _terrible_… _but great_ – wizard who lay dead before him. The Liberator then slowly turned away, entered the cabin of Volvo the cement mixer, and drove away into the rising sun.

xxxxx

"That was… b-b_­_-_BEAUTIFUL!_" sobbed Mr. Ichthys.

"Oh, get a grip on yourself," Rita Skeeter said to her editor. However, inwardly she smiled to herself. Even if readers of _Benjamin Dover: The Living Legend_ liked the book only _half_ as much as Mr. Ichthys did, then her career was well set.

* * *

The villagers of Hogsmeade were gathered near a grassy field adjacent to the town. The assorted adults lazily sat in lawn chairs, drinking Butterbeers (and other much stronger drinks), eagerly trying their luck with some Chocolate Frog Cards, and basically talking about nothing important. The ability to do all those things had been restored a few short months before on that glorious Christmas of 1997.

From the chairs overlooking the field was a spectacular view of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There had been a very turbulent change of staff in the days following He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's defeat: the Carrows and a few mindless cronies had barricaded themselves inside the Slytherin Common Room, and the siege lasted for a week. Only after the Aurors threatened to summon Benjamin Dover himself did the Death Eaters finally surrender to be welcomed with open arms at Azkaban.

With the Carrows in prison and vile Headmaster Snape lovingly Kissed by his Dementor bride, Hogwarts had been purged of the evil regime and had returned to its previous grace and majesty. After a short period being closed for reorganisation and refurbishment, the school was once again serving its intended purpose.

But the inhabitants of Hogsmeade paid no notice of the castle's lofty towers or regal roofs. All attention was focused on the children too young for Hogwarts playing a very energetic game in the grassy field.

The adults were trying to decipher the rules to the match, but little did they know that _there were none_. No game of U2 was ever played the same way twice, and this particular wild brawl was no exception. The only thing consistent in the sport of U2 happened to be its rather unique ball.

The gaggle of little lads and lasses were playing with a large ball shaped much like a lemon or lime. When the children threw it, the ball tumbled end over end. When it was kicked, the points made it dance across the grass in the most unpredictable patterns. Yet the Muggle eccentricity of the U2 ball was what made the game so appealing: it seemed that the ball itself had a mind of its own (_even without magic!_), contributing to the random nature of the sport.

In this particular incarnation of U2, the Chasers on each side (which appeared to be girls versus boys) tried to kick the ball into the opposing team's goals – a difficult feat, considering that the U2 lemon ball tended to go backwards or sideways quite often. A Chaser on the girl's team kicked the ball… which was intercepted by a boy Beater. The boy picked up the ball and ran around chasing some girls, and once in range, he threw it at one fleeing backside.

"Ha! You're out!" the boy shouted in triumph.

And so the ball went on, back and forth, from Chasers trying to score goals to Beaters picking it up and throwing it at each other. Some children who declared themselves Seekers looked a bit confused and didn't know what they were supposed to do. Eventually, the game metamorphosed into something like _spin the bottle_, but with a ball instead. The children ran around, terrified of being kissed by the ball's wielder.

But one boy wasn't. He let himself get hit by the bizarre lemon-shaped ball and graciously accepted a peck on the cheek.

"_Ewwww!"_ chorused the pack of youngsters, horrified at the sight of a _girl_ kissing a _boy_. _"That's so… weird and grown-up!"_

The parents and other adults of Hogsmeade had a healthy laugh at the amusing spectacle before them. And so the villagers enjoyed another peaceful day with pretty clouds, trees, birds, etcetera, watching the youngsters play a very imaginative game of U2.

But there was one man who paid no attention at all to the exciting match. He was much more interested in rummaging through the villager's rubbish bins, actually. The scavenger rummaging through the refuse was a dishevelled sort, with unkempt hair and stubble on his chin and cheeks. He wore a tattered travelling cloak that he kept wrapped around himself, and the odd lumps in his outfit suggested that everything he owned was contained in its plethora of pockets.

A crumpled _Daily Prophet_ lay forgotten in one rubbish bin, browning and curling at the edges from exposure to the sun. It had served dutifully along side the coffee that morning, and once it had served its purpose, it had been discarded.

But it wouldn't stay that way for long.

The man found the weathered _Daily Prophet_ and hastily stuffed it into one of his many pockets. He furtively glanced up and down the sleepy, sunny street, checking for onlookers. Once satisfied that he was alone, he Disapparated to where he could read the newspaper in peace.

**HARRY POTTER STILL AT LARGE**

_Has the Boy-Who-Lived become the Boy-Who-Hid? It appears so, seeing that the former "Chosen One" of Wizarding Britain has been conspicuously absent for more than half a year. Harry Potter was last seen on 27__th__ December at the Burrow (the Weasley family residence) by Ginevra Molly Weasley, age sixteen, two days after Benjamin Dover's historic defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

"_He dropped by for five minutes to say 'Hello,' and then he was gone," Miss Weasley reports concerning Harry Potter's brief and mysterious visit. When asked about anything else he might have said and the motives for his disappearance, she wouldn't comment._

_So why has Harry Potter vanished in his self-imposed isolation? "That's easy," states Rita Skeeter during an interview for her upcoming Benjamin Dover biography. "He feels inadequate because he had been bested by a Muggle cement mixer driver; I mean, who wouldn't? He's desperate for attention, and he thinks the only way he can get it now is by playing hide-and-seek."_

_Though Mr. Potter may or may not be craving attention, many experts agree that his disappearance is attributed to the voiding of his "Chosen One" status in favour of Mr. Benjamin Dover, certainly a serious blow to his self esteem. Others say that he is simply enjoying the freedom of not having the fate of the Wizarding World resting on his shoulders, and is taking an extended holiday._

"_Personally, I think he's forgotten that the war ended more than three months ago, and still believes he's 'Undesirable Number One'," comments Mr. Lucius Malfoy from his Azkaban cell. "He's still out there, playing the hero."_

_But whatever his motive, the fact remains that Harry Potter has been missing for three months, and there is still no sign of him. Where is he now? Nobody knows, but you can help. Please send news of any sightings of Mr. Potter by owl promptly to The Daily Prophet, Diagon Alley, London._

The dishevelled man crumpled the newspaper into a ball. He threw it into his tent's rubbish bin – exactly where it belonged. However, the rubbish bin was actually more like a pile of rubbish, since the bin had overflowed a long time ago and was now buried underneath a small mountain of junk.

The man took notice of that, and decided to do some cleaning. He pointed a vinewood and dragon heartstring wand at the overflowing pile (which was mostly newspapers) and lit it on fire.

With a nice, crackling fire inside the corner of his magical concrete and plaster tent, he roasted a dead squirrel he had found the day before. The squirrel was skewered on the end of something long and pointy, but it wasn't a stick.

It just happened to be a sword – a spectacular weapon with gleaming crimson rubies encrusted in the hilt and the name _Godric Gryffindor_ inscribed on the blade. The scruffy hermit came to possess the sword in the most unspectacular fashion: he simply found it lying on his tent's doorstep along with a cryptic note that said, _"For your mother_._"_ That was odd, needless to say, but the man didn't dwell on from who and where the sword came from.

So far, the most useful purpose the sword had served was cutting and skewering meat, not to mention smashing a priceless silver and emerald locket to tiny pieces. Its wielder could think of other expensive things to annihilate (a small golden cup came to mind) with it, but he had no real idea where they could be or even what some of them were.

It looks like he'll just be skewering dead squirrels for the time being.

For the next few days, he stayed close to Hogsmeade, foraging for food and stealing discarded newspapers. He found another newspaper and dead squirrel and headed back to the cave in the hills where his tent was hidden. He Apparated close to its mouth and walked the rest of the short distance with his hands tucked into his voluminous pockets and panting slightly.

"Harry?" a familiar voice said.

Quick as lightening, his hand whipped out the vinewood wand and aimed automatically at the source of the voice. _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_ he roared.

He knew the spell had struck, because barely a moment later there was a yell and a wand somersaulted into his free hand. The wand looked very familiar…

Confirming his suspicions, a freckled Hogwarts student with flaming red hair stood up from behind his ineffectual protective rock. "H-Harry," he stammered slightly, "is that you? It's me – Ron!"

Harry Potter's face was unreadable. He simply stared at Ron Weasley for a few unusually lengthy seconds… and then walked away.

"Harry – _wait!_ I want to talk to you!" Harry heard the voice yell as he walked purposefully towards his tent.

Suddenly his view was blocked by Ron's face: he was now standing in front of Harry, blocking him. "Harry, please lis–"

"_What do you want_, Ronald?"

Ron was taken aback, momentarily stunned. "Since when did you call me 'Ronald,' Harry?" he asked, wounded.

"Just now," retorted Harry acidly. "Now go away, Ronald. I have a job to do." He moved to get to his (invisible) tent's door, but Ron got in the way again – when in the right mind, he was frustratingly good Keeper.

"Please, Harry – listen to me. Everybody's worried sick about you. Nobody except Ginny has seen you since Bill's wedding, and… we want you back with us. Please come back."

"I can't. Sorry," Harry answered bluntly, searching for a way around Ron and not actually looking at him face-to-face. "I have some Horcruxes to destroy, so if you'll excuse me…"

"Just _forget_ about the Horcruxes for the moment, Harry. We all miss you! My family, the Lupins, the rest of the Order, _Ginny_–"

"Stop it, Ronald!" Harry snapped as he shoved Ron Weasley aside. "I have a job to do, and I'm going to finish it!"

But Ron Weasley was annoyingly persistent. Without pausing to brush off the dust and dirt on his Hogwarts robes, he got right back up and followed Harry Potter's retreating form yet again.

"I can help you, then!" Ron pleaded, desperate for Harry to agree to something – _anything_. "Please let me help. We were in this together–"

Then Harry cracked. He abruptly turned around and Ron for the first time saw the man Harry had become. He looked terrible, _evil_ – evil as _Severus Snape_. He even looked something like him: Harry's hair was long and filthy, but it was the expression of purest loathing that made the connection.

"_OH REALLY?"_ Harry Potter spat in disgust. "Go tell that to Hermione! I'm sure she would have understood _PERFECTLY!_"

He had done it. Harry had struck Ron where it hurt the most, and it showed. The tall, lanky, freckled redhead stood quivering slightly, but his mind was writhing in the utmost agony. Ron then collapsed to his knees, sobbing. He tried embracing Harry's legs, but he wrenched them out of the wreck's grasp.

"H-Harry! I'm _sorry!_" the quivering lump bawled, unleashing a deluge of woe. "I'm so s-sorry! I shouldn't have left – I shouldn't have run! I should have _b-been_ there! It's all my fault Hermione died…"

On that ominous note, Ron's voice died too. He lost all capability of speech and simply broke down, crushed by his guilt. Harry Potter had destroyed him.

Disdainfully, Harry dropped the captured wand, letting it fall onto the rocky ground with a clatter. Without looking back, Harry Potter packed his tent and prepared to Disapparate, wanting nothing more than to leave the wretched man that was Ron Weasley sobbing where he was.

"You're a _pathetic_, _cowardly_ git, Ronald. I almost feel sorry for you," Harry Potter said in farewell before vanishing with a pop.

**To Be Concluded…**


End file.
